The Universe Pointed at Him, and Life Was Miserable
by Aelaer
Summary: "Be careful what you wish for! Interesting can mean a lot of things! When you say things like that, the universe delivers something interesting—and bad!" / "Good thing I don't believe in the universe's ability to deliver," Stephen retorted. / Far beyond their perception, the universe laughed and laughed and laughed. / OR: Kidnapping: A Comedy! Featuring some Avengers. Fully written


_I already wrote an angsty kidnapping so I tried my hand at dabbling into comedy once more._

_Whole work is for the 'Free' square on my Stephen Strange bingo card. Chapter one is for 'Be Careful What You Wish For' on my Bad Things Happen bingo card._

_Big thanks to nemmy for the speedy beta and for reassuring me that it does, indeed, read as a comedy._

* * *

Meet Stephen Strange. He's a neurosurgeon, and a very good one at that. Many would say he's one of the best surgeons—perhaps the _best_ surgeon—in his field (he would say best, if you asked him), and was world-renowned in the medical community for his abilities. This will be important later, but let's take a step back to several years into the past first.

As an undergrad, Stephen took a 'literature during antiquity' class as part of his requirement to take an upper-level elective course. He chose it because his roommate at the time was taking it and he had no better alternatives that fit into his schedule. Above all that, he figured it would be pretty easy so he could spend time concentrating on his more important classes.

(It ended up being the hardest class that semester, but that's beside the point).

One of the authors that stuck with him was Aesop and his famous fables, if only because he remembered so vividly having to cram in a paper about him when he had two significantly more important tests to study for. (Perhaps it was more memorable due to the fact that he found his first white hairs about that time in his early twenties, but again, beside the point).

In one of Aesop's fables was a famous sentiment, first attributed to him, that translates to, "We would often be sorry if our wishes were gratified". Similar statements have been repeated in various languages throughout history until it finally whittled down to the famous adage well-known by the English-speaking world today: be careful what you wish for.

Stephen Strange was not, on a normal day, one to consider adages and their meanings.

You see where this is going.

To be entirely fair to him, his week thus far had been rather dull. The cases presented to him for his consideration were not very interesting, he had no scheduled surgeries for three days (somehow), and no one had begged for him in the ER in all that time.

So when Stephen caught Christine in the halls during a shared break, he eventually ended up saying, "I wish something interesting happened today."

Christine laughed. "Be careful what you wish for! Interesting can mean a lot of things!"

He huffed, but in good humor. "You know what I mean. I'll take an interesting surgery in the ER at this point."

She rolled her eyes. "I'll keep you in mind, should anything 'interesting' turn up. But when you say things like that," she laughed again, "the universe often delivers something interesting— and usually very bad!"

"Good thing I don't believe in the universe's ability to deliver, then," he retorted to her joke with his own eye roll.

Far beyond their perception, the universe laughed and laughed and laughed.

* * *

About an hour before he was scheduled to be off, Christine found him. "Did you still want interesting?" she asked, but there was a nervous energy about her that belied the light words and immediately had him looking at the scans. Soon after, he was scrubbing in.

The surgery was done just after 1am. He was mostly satisfied, but definitely ready to get some sleep.

"Are you sleeping in your office?" Christine asked afterwards.

He shook his head. "I'll be home soon enough."

Fifteen minutes later, he really ended up regretting that decision.

See, if he had made the decision to sleep in his office, he would have been a bit sore in the morning. This means that he would have been even more short-tempered than usual in the face of incompetence, but as Stephen Strange had a reputation for being an asshole around the hospital, there ultimately would have been little of consequence. His life would have continued, same old story, with little change for years (the amount of years varying depending on which part of the multiverse this Stephen Strange existed in).

But as he decided to go to his car that late night, the winding path of the timeline took a turn and everything changed.

The parking garage underneath the hospital was all but empty of cars and almost empty of people. Unfortunately for Stephen, he was not the only person in the garage; double unfortunately for him, the others nearby were not what ordinary people would consider "nice" people.

It went down like this:

As Stephen walked towards his car, stifling his yawns, he heard someone call from behind, "Excuse me?" He turned to see a man approaching. "Are you Doctor Stephen Strange?" he asked when he was within a few feet of him.

_Really? At this time of night?_ "I am," he answered, frowning. "Look, if you're looking for a consultation, you're going to have to make an appointment with my secretary."

"I'm afraid we're past the point of consultations."

Stephen frowned even more, but before he could answer, he heard two pairs of footsteps approach from behind. He took a brief look over his shoulder to see two large, muscular men in nondescript black clothing about three feet behind him. When he looked forward again, he was staring down the barrel of a .45.

Stephen was not particularly fond of guns. He discovered that being put at gunpoint only increased his dislike of the item, though at this time he was less thinking about his general distaste for guns and more thinking along the lines of _there's a gun there's a gun there's a gun that's a gun oh God that's an actual gun_.

Adrenaline took the place of his weariness within a heartbeat. He raised both hands to his shoulders. "Take my wallet. I won't fight." Credit cards could be replaced. If they saw his watch, it was insured. Replacing the driver's license would be the most annoying part of the process.

This is at least what he told himself to stay still and calm. It may have even worked if these were your typical thieves, but you probably already knew that this was not that type of story.

The man in front of him half-smirked. "We're not after your money, doctor. We're in need of your expertise."

As he realized the significance of that declaration, two heavy hands clapped down on either shoulder from behind, forcing his arms to his sides. He tensed and clenched his hands into fists, but there was a gun pointed at his head and he did not have the ability to fight what appeared to be three trained and armed thugs.

Stephen did not resist as he was herded into the shadows of the garage, and within a minute they came to the back of a white and windowless utility van. No kidnapping was complete without a white utility van, after all.

(Some may argue that nondescript black vehicles with tinted windows were just as effective, but they're wrong. True professionals, whether they be electricians or hitmen, always used white utility vans—or at least did during this period in time. That changed in this universe a few years later when the majority of Ford Transits and Mercedes Sprinters obtained windows on their back doors, thus completely ruining their aesthetic. This caused a large shift in the American criminal community, and in the field of professional kidnappings the nondescript black vehicles with tinted windows made a victorious comeback after decades of silence.)

His pockets were emptied and they took his wallet, phone, and keys before opening the back doors. The prodding of the gun barrel against his back encouraged him to step into the van. Before he could do more, one man held his shoulders to keep him in place as another yanked his arms back to secure them with zip ties. "Don't cut off the circulation," the first one warned as he was secured.

Stephen was tugged into a jump seat and strapped in before a black bag was pulled over his head. He swallowed heavily. A voice that sounded very much like Christine's echoed through his mind. _They want you alive and unhurt, Stephen. Just do as they say and for God's sake, don't be a smartass._

Don't be a smartass. Right.

In most scenarios, it was rather easy to forget the "don't be a smartass" rule. He didn't necessarily set out to antagonize people, he just found a lot of them rather, well, _dumb_. And he wasn't exactly a flying example of patience even on a good day.

Thus came the sarcasm and smartassery. It made him a lot of—not enemies, exactly, but certainly not friends. Friends weren't entirely necessary in Stephen's world, though. Maybe it was this thinking that made him the universe's target in the first place. The universe, after all, loved finding the real arrogant intellects of the world and knocking them down a peg or two.

Unknown to Stephen, in the front cab the man with the gun was making a call letting others know that they had successfully caught a neurosurgeon. Because of this, three other very successful and qualified neurosurgeons in New England remained uninterrupted from their day job of poking at brain matter, blissfully unaware that they had just dodged the metaphorical bullet and probably lived the rest of their lives with nothing as dramatic as a kidnapping ever coming into play.

(The most dramatic thing that would ever happen to any of them was when the neurosurgeon in Boston found out her mother and father were helping out a very kind displaced prince in Africa and needed another $1,000 to help with their joint investment venture into diamond mining, and wouldn't she be a dear and lend them some money? They were investing in their future grandchildren, even though she told them 623 times that she really wasn't having kids, really.)

But back to Stephen.

Stephen, unlike the other neurosurgeons, had not dodged the metaphorical bullet. Stephen rather got hit straight in the face with it. He might even see real bullets at some point, too (but that would really be telling). At the moment, however, he was doing his very best not to think of bullets, guns, or really anything to do with a gruesome and untimely death. But despite his very best efforts, his mind kept straying back to that thought process. It turned out that when one is zip-tied and has a black bag over one's head, it's rather difficult to think of more cheerful subjects.

He wasn't sure how long they drove or where they had gone, but eventually they came to city streets once more and went through them for a few minutes before coming to a stop.

(He may have found it interesting that he had just been driven an hour and forty-seven minutes from midtown Manhattan to the outskirts of Philadelphia. He may have found it interesting that he was only a couple miles away from the hospital he was born in. But he didn't know all this, so we'll never know just what he would have thought of it.)

He heard the back doors of the van open. Two pairs of hands grabbed him and half-dragged, half-carried him out and into a standing position. He was led blindly away from the car and through some sort of parking structure (he thought) and then definitely inside somewhere. He heard the telltale shift of elevator doors just before he was led into it.

A few seconds and who-knows-how-many-floors later (it was two, but Stephen had no way of knowing that), the elevator stopped and he was led down a hall. They stopped him, he heard a door open, and he was herded inside somewhere else.

The entire situation was madly disorienting, and he would have been annoyed if he wasn't completely terrified for his life.

A male voice in front of him said, "Release him."

The zip tie was cut and the sack removed from his head. Stephen blinked in the sudden light as he took in his surroundings. He was in a windowless room that looked like it had been taken directly out of the stereotypical crime drama. There was no mirrored, two-way wall, but there was the bright lighting, metal table and chairs, and a guy in a suit currently staring at him in an assessing manner.

Said suit-man indicated to the chair nearest him. "Have a seat, Doctor Strange." Stephen, having normal self-preservation instincts at this time in his life, did. Suit-man took the seat across from him. (He needed a better name than suit-man. Criminal mastermind? Government agent? His more begrudging coworkers were more than happy to point out a few months ago that he "was on that government kill list" leaked out, occasionally adding "probably for being such a major asshole". Maybe the government thought the same. That would be a bummer.)

Suit-man was talking again. "I'm pleased we were able to contact you. It is said you are one of the best neurosurgeons in the country."

There were many, many things Stephen could have replied with. A part of him wanted to enlighten the man on the very different definitions of 'contact' and 'kidnap'. He could have also corrected him and said "the best", rather than this "one of" verbiage. And another small part of him that he was doing his best to disown wanted to cry and beg to be let go.

He opted for none of these options and let the Christine-sounding _keep your damn mouth shut_ thought rule his mind. So Stephen said nothing.

It seemed he chose the right option, for suit-man just continued talking. "Someone in our organisation received a head injury last week. He needs surgery." He slid over a folder and, despite himself, Stephen pulled it closer and opened it.

_No patient name, just a case number. Fractured skull from blunt force trauma; the HRCT made that obvious. MRI showed multiple leakage sites in one general area—also obvious. Endoscopic examination revealed that the leaking fistula sites were not all visible. Despite the damage, conservative management was undertaken. Leakage had remained steady and the risk of meningitis is too great a concern now. Bifrontal craniotomy recommended._

(For those who don't speak neurosurgeon, whoever had their head bashed in already had proper treatment, with the proper scans and proper steps taken. Stephen, of course, noticed this.)

"It seems you have a neurosurgeon on hand," Stephen said after reviewing all of the contents. "Why am I needed?"

"Broken wrist," was the succinct reply. "From what I understand, waiting is no longer an option here for the best results. And you were recommended."

Of all the neurosurgeons to recognize his talents, it had to be one who worked with shady… somebodies. He wasn't sure which side of the law they were on quite yet. Could shady government agencies just steal neurosurgeons from parking garages?

The self-preservation part of his brain that spoke with Christine's voice was completely caught off guard as he pursued this government-or-organized-crime line of thought. "You really could have come to my office tomorrow. A few more hours wouldn't hurt at this point." Statistically speaking, anyway.

Suit-man offered a smile. "Our current position leaves such an undertaking difficult at this time." Stephen leaned further towards criminal organization with that answer. Something perhaps showed on his face, for Suit-man continued, "I assure you, doctor, that you will be paid handsomely for your time."

Payment was absolutely the least of his worries and he almost found it laughable that it was even mentioned at all. That they even _thought_ it would be the deciding factor at this point in his career was insulting. The self-preservation voice took a backseat as his ego stepped up to the plate.

He sat back in the uncomfortable metal chair. "I'm used to choosing my own patients. I don't take orders very well."

Suit-man raised his brows. "You have nerve, doctor; I'll give you that."

That both his ex and a (likely) criminal said this to him was either a bad sign or a remarkable accomplishment. He wasn't sure which yet.

Stephen looked back at the case file. Bifrontal craniotomies were decidedly more interesting than simpler, less invasive surgeries, but this whole situation left a bad taste in his mouth. This was wholly understandable, as most relationships that began with a kidnapping tended to end rather badly.

While Christine's voice was starting to shout at him to simply agree and get it over with, Suit-man's complacent response to his last statement emboldened him. He looked back up at the man.

"And should I refuse?" Stephen asked.

The man gave him a mock-concerned look. "A neurosurgeon who doesn't perform neurosurgery hardly needs all the tools of the trade then, does he? His eyes or his hands would be a lot less valuable."

He swallowed. Point made. His emboldened ego slunk back away and self-preservation made a large comeback.

"When do we begin?"

* * *

Before the surgery, Suit-man wanted Stephen well-rested, so it would not take place until the coming afternoon. He managed to get a glimpse of his watch and saw it was just a quarter after three in the morning as he was hauled to his feet by the two silent men.

A couple minutes later he was deposited into a room with a bed, desk, chair, sink, and toilet. It was thankfully clean, but it was nowhere near anything resembling private. They didn't even try to hide the camera in the corner of the room above the door.

(He needn't have worried about the camera; the man in the monitor room was currently playing his highest-scoring game ever of Candy Crush Saga and stopped paying attention to the feeds a couple hours ago. He'd eventually regret his addiction to the game, but it didn't stop him from forming the same obsession with Clash of Clans a couple years later.)

With little else to do but attempt to rest, Stephen laid himself down on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. While he had gotten very good at falling asleep in random places in both med school and during his residency, the skill had faded in the last few years. On top of that, he never before had any opportunities to practice falling asleep after being kidnapped. This was definitely a new experience.

It was a skill that would have been handy at the moment, because while he was absolutely exhausted, no one had told his adrenal glands to stop working in overdrive. Telling them mentally to stop had about the same effect (that is, being completely ineffective; it was annoying).

He didn't remember the last time he had insomnia (which was probably another reason the universe targeted him, because everyone gets insomnia every now and then and no one should be that lucky). He did remember a few techniques he'd heard about lulling the brain to sleep, such as reciting songs.

And did he know songs. His head was very, very good at songs. He once went to a music trivia night at a local bar and was begged not to come back because the rest of the clientele were rather upset at their complete lack of chance in winning. A couple of them were so upset that they even accused him of cheating, but a rather heated argument, a check of his phone (it was off) and a look into his ears for some sort of invisible headset led to a few very disappointed people and the club offering an extra fifty dollar voucher on top of his winnings. Overall, it really was a great night.

This particular night, though, his memory did him no good at all.

_Look_, he told his brain, _we've been laying here reciting music for almost an hour. They're going to have me perform the surgery whether I like it or not. A well-rested body will make this whole ordeal a lot easier._

Trying to argue his body to sleep didn't exactly work, but before the next hour ticked by, his brain eventually remembered what it was supposed to do in a bed and he fell asleep.


End file.
